Jerry Davich: February 2008 Archives

Now that we know the identity of the suicide-gunman - Stephen Phillip Kazmierczak - from Thursday’s mass shooting at Northern Illinois University, it answers the "who" question of what happened. And we already know the "where," "how," "what," and "when" aspects of his evil act, taking the lives of five NIU students and wounding 20 more, which I wrote about in my Saturday column, found at http://www.post-trib.com/news/davich/index.html.
Now comes the tricky part, attempting to answer the final question in our minds: Why?

Soul singer Natalie Cole, the 58-year-old daughter of legendary crooner Nat King Cole, echoed the feelings of many music fans Monday by saying drugged-out, screwed-up, singer-songstress Amy Winehouse shouldn't have hauled in so many Grammys at Sunday's ceremony.
"I don't think she should have won," Cole said in an interview on People magazine's website. "I think it sends a bad message to our young people who are trying to get into this business, the ones who are trying to do it right and really trying to keep themselves together."
Winehouse, for those out of the pop music loop, is currently receiving treatment at a rehabilitation clinic for drug abuse after breaking into the music scene with her first (prophetic) hit "Rehab."
On Sunday, she nabbed five - count 'em five - Grammy awards, including record of the year, song of the year and best new artist.
Cole, who helped announce Winehouse's record of the year victory at Sunday's ceremony in Los Angeles, later said, "We have to stop rewarding bad behavior. (Winehouse) needs to get herself together... this is about discipline and hard work, and you don't get to just do your drugs and go onstage and get rewarded."
So, do you agree with Cole?
I say, NO, NO, NO!

A lot of reader comments I receive via cyberspace never make it to print or into this blog.
They're either too inflammatory for public consumption, too lengthy for space considerations in the newspaper, or just too wacky, off-base, or irrelevant for either forum. So they get deleted, forwarded to editors for other reporters to consider, or saved for future columns.
Still, I wanted to give you a quick peek at what I'm talking about, including some reader feedback to previous columns and suggestions for future columns, so here you go. Enjoy.

It's 4 p.m. in the Post-Tribune newsroom as deadline approaches for daily stories.
For the past few hours, the past few days, the past few years, the past few decades, it's the same routine here and, I'm sure, at every other newspaper.
Reporters, columnists, editors, photographers and other editorial staff are all doing pretty much the same thing: Asking questions.
That's what I do for a living. That's what they do for a living. That's what we do for a living. We ask questions.
As if I needed it, I even have a little yellow button on my desk reminding me what I do for a buck. It says, "Ask a bunch of questions."
On this day, I'm on the phone asking a Griffith man, who's black, about his claims of discrimination from a Griffith businesswoman, who's white. And via email I'm asking a Hammond woman about her brother's murder that was never solved. So far on this day I've asked about 25 questions to various sources, readers, and colleagues.
I know, I've been counting.
Behind me, one reporter is on the phone asking questions about an interstate closure, and another is asking questions about an alleged arsonist who was arrested.
A photographer is asking local tire repair shops if potholes have made their business any busier. And an editor is asking another reporter about changes in his story.
Questions, questions, questions. Like I said, that's what we do.
You'd think we'd have some answers by now - and some of us do, about all kinds of things - but each new day we come back into this office, open up our email, pick up our phones, and begin asking new questions.
And we keep asking them until we run out of time, not answers, sort of like Sisyphus, the Greek mythological character who the gods condemned to ceaselessly roll a rock to the top of a mountain, only for it to roll back down from its own weight. Again and again and again. Rock after rock, question after question.
In my younger days, I had all the answers. Or so I thought.
These days, all I have are questions. Thank God I get paid to ask them.

So I limp in to the Family Express gas station after playing Thursday night tennis at The Courts of Northwest Indiana in Valparaiso.
My weekly ritual after playing 90 minutes of sweaty, no-Gatorade tennis is to quench my thirst by - what else? - eating chocolate donuts. And Family Express typically gets fresh ones delivered each evening, so here I am.
But before I can make my laser-beam beeline to the donuts case, I'm interrupted by an employee behind the counter.
"Hi," the 20-something guy says cheerfully. "How ya doin'?"
I look around. Is he talking to me? Is he actually greeting me personally? Unlike, say, at Blockbuster Video, where employees cough up a vague and indirect “hi” after some Pavlovian doorbell goes off. No, this guy, who I immediately nicknamed “Mr. Friendly” in my head, greets other customers behind me in the same upbeat manner. "How ya' doin?" "Hello." "Welcome."
Amazing, I think to myself while choosing the absolutely largest possible chocolate donuts in the case.
In the meantime, Mr. Friendly chats it up with some guy with a pony tail. They seem like old friends. Until, that is, the guy wants to buy some smokes, I think, and Mr. Friendly asks for his I.D.
"I've gotta ask," he explains, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't want to get fired or anything."
So he asks, and the pony-tail guy shows his ID.
But then, just as I ponder splurging for three donuts instead of two, Mr. Friendly utters the sweetest words to my ears.

I expected it. I deserved it. I got it.
After my Sunday column ran on the BMV's decision to tighten a legal loophole allowing thousands of Lake and Porter county motorists to detour around strict emission mandates and the costly repairs often needed to comply to state law - initially sparked by my Jan. 7 column - I knew I would hear about it from angry readers. And I did.
The first phone call came in at 7 a.m. on Sunday.
"You're a moron, Jerry, for bringing this issue to the attention of readers, and to the state."
Others followed.
"Thanks a lot, Jerry," one man sarcastically hissed. "I'm a father of five who makes $35,000 a year, and I can't afford to buy a new vehicle if mine won't pass emissions. So thanks a lot."
Sunday's column, by the way,